


Bass Drum

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Human/Vampire Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 19:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7904944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a realisation about Ringo that makes his dead heart warm. Vamp!John/human!Ringo. For the prompt: Hi there. I wanted to ask if you could do a Ringo/John au story where John is a vampire of sorts & reveals to Ringo that he’s his soulmate?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bass Drum

John lies there, looking up at the overcast sky, and wonders.

He has lived in silence for a very long time – lack of bodily processes means no breathing in the night, no whoosh of your blood around your ears, and no heartbeat. No dull, rhythmic thud against your ribcage to soothe you, to provide a clock of sorts that measures your passing through life. He is frozen, and his internal clock has stopped in accordance.

He isn’t sure when he began to hear that sound again, he realises, as drizzle gently peppers his black trench coat.

He knew there was something about Ringo – his scent was so different. His fangs slide forth from his gums as he remembers it, dark eyes flashing a deep maroon for one moment. It was like… if he had to explain it, he couldn’t. It was like the taste of a double bass note. The thought of polished wood. It was deep and dark and rich and he had no idea it would be attached to a tiny, blue-eyed drummer who said the words ‘peace and love’ like they were going out of style and was allergic to nearly everything but baked beans and proper chippy chips.

It had been after tasting him for the first time that he had begun to hear the noise.

Thunder rolls, and he stares up at the sky he has not seen at its bluest in eons.

It was like a drumroll – ironic, he notes sardonically. It was as if somebody had been just behind him, playing the drums in his ear faintly, and he’d gone around to Ringo’s flat to ask him what it could be.

Ringo had sat behind the drumkit and begun to tap it out, and John had shaken his head.

“The bass drum. Try the bass drum.”

_Buhm-buhm. Buhm-buhm. Buhm-buhm._

“Sounds like a heartbeat to me,” Ringo had said.

Lightning flashes, and John grimaces against the light. Only sunlight brings the burning agony, but all light, to him, causes a moment of panic. Silly human fight-or-flight responses.

He had panicked – of course – and gone home, finagling a stethoscope out of household items to try to listen. Nothing – his chest was resolutely silent, but he could still hear that sound in the back of his head.

A week later, lying curled up with his fluffy head on Ringo’s stocky chest, he _felt_ it.

It was Ringo’s heartbeat.

His shirt sticks to him as the rain, now pelting down, permeates his coat.

He’d never heard of this – not that he had many friends afflicted with his, uh, condition, but even the ones he had had never heard of anything like this. Hearing a mortal’s heartbeat outside of hunting sounded… well, preposterous.

And then one old-timer at the club told him exactly what it meant.

The heartbeat in the back of his head is growing louder. He swings his legs down from the wall, and as he does so, he sees the light in the kitchen flicker on, before the window opens and Ringo leans out, exhaling smoke into the air.

“Hey!” he calls, and Ringo smiles.

“Johnny, yer soaked…” He gestures, and John inhales – more force of habit, he’s not needed oxygen for some time – and then leaps up and through the window neatly. Ringo looks impressed. Ringo _always_ looks impressed. It makes him _burn_ inside.

“Can I talk to yeh? Lad?” he asks, awkwardly, and Ringo nods, tapping his cigarette on the ashtray. His heartbeat has sped up. “Listen…”

“…are yeh going?” Ringo asks quietly, and John is _aghast_ suddenly, jaw nearly to the floor. The drummer turns around and stares through the window. “I thought yeh… I mean… I get it, yeh know.”

“What?” John asks, and Ringo shakes his head.

“Well, yer immortal, like. Yeh… probably don’t wanna be tied down to me, like…” Ringo’s voice is steely but John can hear the pain beneath – has Ringo been anticipating this? Has he been _practising_ for this? “I… yeh know, I… thanks for being… here… and all…”

“Ringo,” John says softly, and pulls Ringo towards him – Ringo stares at him. “I love yeh.” Ringo stares at him, and John flushes. “God, don’t look at me like that, lad. I love yeh. I really do.” The rain is slowly stopping – the pattering against the window-pane dying slowly. “You’re… mine.”

“…yeh mean it?” Ringo asks quietly, and John silences him with a kiss.

“I can hear yer heartbeat. Wherever I am,” he murmurs, and Ringo stares. “Apparently… that only happens when yeh really love someone. So… there yeh have it.”

“Me?” Ringo asks, and John nods.

“Who else?” he replies fondly, and as he kisses Ringo again, he doesn’t feel his own heart hammer in his chest. But he hears Ringo’s, and that’s more than enough.


End file.
